


The Friend in the Volcano

by TheAsexualofSpades



Series: Quarantine Drabbles [108]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Animals, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Animal Transformation, Dragon!Sherlock - Freeform, Gen, Sherlock is lonely as a dragon and John is one determined hedgehog, hedgehog!john - Freeform, humans are weird and strange, i don't know guys, shiny things and warm places and too many tabs about hedgehog burrows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:54:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25183582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAsexualofSpades/pseuds/TheAsexualofSpades
Summary: If you told most people that you’d found a dragon’s hoard, they would expect mountains of gold, silver, jewels, pearls, treasures beyond your wildest imaginations. Sherlock never did understand how mortals could be so…shortsighted. Granted, when one’s existence is confined to a measly century, everything must seem so terribly important. Perhaps the human race was more closely related to magpies that he previously postulated. It would certainly explain their fascination with shiny objects.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Quarantine Drabbles [108]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677655
Comments: 8
Kudos: 129





	The Friend in the Volcano

**Author's Note:**

> i don't know what to tell you guys, this one's weird. I woke up with a different voice yelling at me and here you go

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Prompt: Animal AU

* * *

If you told most people that you’d found a dragon’s hoard, they would expect mountains of gold, silver, jewels, pearls, treasures beyond your wildest imaginations. On the occasion that you would find a…different sort of person, they would whisper to you stories of gore, of horror, of corpses. Sherlock never did understand how mortals could be so…shortsighted. Granted, when one’s existence is confined to a measly century, everything must seem so terribly important. Perhaps the human race was more closely related to magpies that he previously postulated. It would certainly explain their fascination with shiny objects.

No. Sherlock was not your…typical dragon. For one, he did not have the four legs and two wings that required one to be _physically_ classified as a technical ‘dragon.’ No. Sherlock was an amphithere. Two wings, no legs. A close relative of the wyrm. He could fly, even though this ability was not used regularly, and did not breathe fire, as the warier of humans were so subject to suspect. For another, he did not hoard treasure that any human would want.

Sherlock hoarded information.

Dragons, to the well-educated person, were sources of wisdom, origins of some of the most fantastic stories the world had ever heard. Living for an average of a millennium did that for you. Sherlock wasn’t one for storytelling, at least not in mortals’ conventional way. No, his stories were always a bit…perceptive, he believes is the right word. Words and language are so confusing when one doesn’t have the magical aura to properly interpret each word.

Sherlock told the stories he _saw._ Which meant he needed to know how to look.

Some called him a curse. Some called him an omen. Nevertheless, they sought him out just the same. Looking for his word, his ‘blessing,’ his story. To tell them what happens, what _had_ happened, and what was likely to happen again. He told them the stories they asked for, whether they were satisfied with them or not. They didn’t seem to understand that he could not _change_ what story he told, they could not bribe him to change his word or plead with him to spare them. He simply spoke.

The one time a group tried to sacrifice someone to him ended very badly.

For them.

Sherlock told the stories he saw because he did not see the value in any other kind. The stories one could see, written in the way they moved, the way they talked, the way they reacted, were the most useful. So those were the types he told.

Dragons are very solitary creatures, you must understand. And Sherlock had little patience for anything that was not of the utmost importance.

So he hoarded information. In order to tell his stories properly, he needed to know things. So he explored the ruins of civilizations failed, watched from high mountaintops and cloud banks over the ones that hadn’t, explored books, poems, tableaus, everything he could get his teeth into. Because of this, he did not accept offerings that any human would give him, even if they understood his stories could not be changed. He had no use for shiny things and that was all they seemed to want to give him.

Visiting another dragon’s cave is an excessively intimate affair. Sherlock didn’t care to indulge in such an act, plus there were not many dragons in this area anyway. But even if he had, it is doubtful they would have stayed long. Sherlock’s cave had no riches, no plush cushions, no glorious trophies, man or metal. No. Sherlock’s cave was a place for him to rest and dream of the stories he had told.

The base of a volcano served as an excellent cave. It was warm enough to keep his scales from falling off and mortals wouldn’t dare come too close. The magma offered shelter, the lava bubbling underneath helping with his shielding charms. He could lie, curled up with his wings tucked over his head, and think. His treasures were kept inside, inside a memory spell so thick it wove its own caverns.

And there he stayed.

_Scuttle. Scuttle. Scuttle._

Sherlock’s wings shuffled, listening to the little scratching sounds coming from around him. Was something coming?

The sounds kept moving persistently, closer and closer. Perhaps some humans.

Something fell onto Sherlock’s right wing, bouncing off and rolling around the floor of his cave. He huffed, annoyed that the rocks didn’t seem to fall any more, which meant they had stopped. Rude. He lifted his head to change position, only to pause when he noticed a small animal, no bigger than left nostril, struggling on the floor in front of him.

Sherlock tilted his head. This…creature was flailing its little legs, trying to right itself but not succeeding. He moved his head forward, carefully nudging it with his snout until it rolled over. Spiky. It shook itself once before looking up at him.

“Hello,” it said, “I’m John.”

“You are a hedgehog.”

“Well, er, I think so.” The hedgehog—John sat on his rear and ran his little legs over his body. “Unless somethings’ changed.”

“Why are you here?”

“Right, well, er, I was looking for a new place to burrow and it was warm up above—“

“This is a volcano.”

“Right, but, er, we’re fairly far away from the crater—“

“That does not mean it is safe.”

“Alright,” John said, “but I didn’t _know_ that, so I…started digging and, er, fell.”

“Are you hurt?”

John blinked. “What?”

“Are you hurt,” Sherlock repeated, craning his neck forward to look, “injured?”

“Huh? Oh, oh no I’m fine.” John walked around a little just to show him. “See?”

Sherlock huffed, careful to keep from blowing smoke into the hedgehog’s face. “You are too small to be able to reach the place from which you fell.”

John shook himself a little. “Right, er…sorry about that by the way, I, uh, hope I didn’t hurt you?”

Sherlock blinked. “You are much smaller than I am and much less dense. The likelihood of you being able to inflict a significant amount of damage to me is incredibly minute.”

“O-oh.” John nosed at a loose rock. “That—that’s good, isn’t it?”

“It is true.” Sherlock finally emerged from his wings, looking upwards. The hole had collapsed at the lowest layer, but the tunnel should have been sturdy enough to allow John to make it safely back to the surface.

“Blimey!”

Sherlock looked down. John stared up at him, spines quivering.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, no,” John muttered, “it’s just…well, you’re _magnificent._ ”

Sherlock blinked. Dragons were…impressive, surely, to most creatures, simply because of their size and auras, but… _magnificent?_

“I…I have never been called magnificent,” Sherlock mumbled before giving his head a little shake. “If you can enter the tunnel you dug from here, you will be able to get back to the surface.”

“Er, how’m I supposed to get up there?”

“I will lift you.”

Sherlock settled his head on the ground next to John. “Come. Climb.”

“Er, what if I—“

“You will not hurt me,” Sherlock interrupted, “you are too small.”

“…you sure?”

“I am. Now climb.”

Sherlock felt John scurry up on top of his head and carefully lifted him up to the tunnel.

“Can you reach it?”

“Y-yeah, I got it! Thank you!”

Sherlock felt the weight leave his head and looked to see John peering at him.

“You are welcome. Try not to dig near a volcano.”

“I won’t!"

Sherlock began to lower his head when John squeaked. "Yes?"

"What's your name? I never asked!"

"...Sherlock."

"Thank you, Sherlock!"

When John scurried off, Sherlock had taken a moment to ponder that had just happened, and gone back to thinking, expecting that to be the end of it.

It wasn’t.

Not even a week later, John tumbled back into his cave. Sherlock opened one eye to see a familiar hedgehog in front of him.

“I remember telling you to not dig around volcanos.”

“I didn’t dig,” John said sheepishly, “I just used the onedug last time.”

“Given that you already knew where it led,” Sherlock said, closing his eye, “I cannot see why you would choose to repeat it.”

“Well, I, er, remembered you were here. And…and I figured you probably know the area pretty well and I, er, need help finding a place to burrow.”

Sherlock opened both eyes, resting his snout on his outermost coil. “Why did you come to me?”

John fiddled with his own snout. “You seem nice.”

“‘Nice?’”

“You helped me,” John said, “you…didn’t eat me.”

“If that is how you are defining ‘niceness,’ then—“

“And I like you.”

Sherlock blinked. “L-like me?”

John nodded. “You’re interesting.”

“I am interesting,” Sherlock repeated, testing the words on his tongue. Hedgehogs are not inherently magical creatures, and John’s words carry no aura. Yet he does not detect any malice behind the words.

It has been a long time since he did not have someone come to him with fear or suspicion in their voice.

“…not far from here,” Sherlock rumbled finally, “there is an old shrine to a long-forgotten mortal god.”

“A mortal god? Doesn’t that…not make sense?”

“A god the mortals worshipped,” Sherlock corrected, “that they no longer do.”

“Oh, that makes more sense.”

“In the shrine is a network of hedges,” Sherlock continued, “that is not too wet, too cold, nor too sparse. Perhaps you could burrow there.”

He lifted John up and expected that to be the last of it, even though he sorted through his memory spell to ensure that if John ever did come back, he would not give him to wrong advice.

_Scuttle. Scuttle. Scuttle. Plonk._

“John?”

“Yep, it’s me.”

Sherlock looked up to see John right himself and shake his little head. “Does that not hurt _you_?”

“Not really. Got a good set of spines.”

Sherlock hummed, resting his snout on the ground. “What brings you here this time? Did the shrine not work out?”

“What? Oh, no, the shrine’s great. Got the right amount of everything, you were right. I, er, I guess I just wanted to…bring you something.”

Sherlock’s ears pricked and his coils shifted. “Something?”

“I found this,” John said, rolling over to show the item he held between his two front feet. Sherlock nudged it carefully with his snout. “I, er, didn’t know what it was, and I, er, thought you might?”

Sherlock did know what this was.

It was shiny. A thin ring of metal that was large enough to fit around most of John’s face, but small enough that Sherlock really had to lean down to peer at it.

“It is a ring,” Sherlock rumbled, “ornamentation. It signifies power, or wealth, in most mortal cultures.”

“Huh. What else does it do?”

“In some cultures it is symbolic.”

“Of what?”

“Faith,” Sherlock muttered, “or loyalty.”

“Is that why it says the thing?”

Sherlock frowned. “I do not see.”

John flipped the ring so Sherlock could see the inside of the band. A small inscription read: ‘Delight in smallness. Revel in greatness.’

“What does that mean?” John asked after Sherlock read it aloud.

“I believe,” Sherlock said, “it means that the little things in life should…please you, and the…grander things in life should be…admired.”

“Like you.”

“M-me?”

“Yeah,” John said, “you’re grand, aren’t you?”

Was Sherlock grand?

“I…I suppose?”

“I think you are,” John said, toying with the ring, “I think you’re great. You’re big, you’re warm, you’re clever, and you’re kind. That’s pretty grand, isn’t it?”

Perhaps John did have magic. The words hit Sherlock in a way the words of mortals never did. Perhaps…perhaps he was grand.

“And you are little,” Sherlock murmured, looking at the hedgehog in front of him.

“You saying I delight you?”

Sherlock swallowed his smoke and nodded.

“Great. I like you too.” John fidgeted with the ring. “I, er, wanted to ask you something else.”

“Yes?”

“Can we—is it okay if I—er, do you mind if—can we be friends?”

Sherlock blinked. “Friends?”

“There aren’t any other hedgehogs around here,” John murmured, “and, er, I like you a lot.”

Sherlock is a dragon that hoards information. He tells the stories he sees. He does not accept offerings or gifts or sacrifices. He is not interested in the whims and wishes of mortals.

But perhaps…perhaps he can be the friend of a hedgehog.

“Yes,” Sherlock rumbled, “I would like to be your friend.”

“R-really? Oh, that’s great! I, er, I’m really happy you said that.”

That time, when Sherlock lifted John up to go back to his burrow, he smiled as he heard John scurry away. He curled himself up in his wings, nuzzling his snout against the heat.

His friend would be back. And they would tell stories together.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come yell at me on tumblr while we're all in quarantine. 
> 
> https://a-small-batch-of-dragons.tumblr.com/


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